


An American Mouth

by alicekittridge



Series: Visions of the Past, Glimpses of Life [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, POV Third Person, Pining, Present Tense, Some Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: A glimpse into Villanelle's life.





	An American Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a season 1 loophole.  
> I wrote this in a speed-fever of a day. It's somewhat revised and as comprehensive as I could make it. I enjoyed this little character study!  
> Content warning: Mention of sexual violence, and a scene of violence. I would avoid this work if those things do not sit easy with you.  
> Italicized line is from an untitled poem of mine.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_My lips have touched yours_

_In star-filled dreams_

 

—

“Your timing is absolutely terrible. So terrible, in fact, that a metronome may not even be able to help you. Is that for me?” Villanelle plucks the small champagne glass from Konstantin’s fingers before he has time to answer. She downs it while returning to her bedroom, where her most recent affair is pulling her clothes back on.

            “Who is it?” she asks.

            “My idiot brother,” Villanelle replies. “Fat bastard comes at inopportune times.”

            She shows the woman to the door, gives her a kiss on the cheek.

            “Quite pretty,” Konstantin comments when the door is shut.

            “Yes, but she had a habit of begging. I was worried the landlady would show up.”

            “Perhaps you should invest in soundproofing.”

            Villanelle hums. “What do you have for me?”

            He pulls a postcard from his coat. Vintage-style, with the London Eye front and center.

            Villanelle frowns. “London again?” She puts on her best posh accent, “Dreary ol’ London?”

            “I thought you enjoyed London.”

            “Like you said, somebody is after me.”

            “I suppose you better be careful then.” He gives her a train ticket. “First class.” After it’s in her hand, he makes to leave. “Someday we will watch a movie.”

            “Someday is really just code for _never_. What a disappointment you are, Bad Timing.” Villanelle opens the door for him and ushers him out. “That champagne sample you gave me had better be in my fridge when I get back. Preferably in the form of a bottle.”

            “If all goes well,” Konstantin says, “it will be.”

 

            The hotel is old and top-budget. It bears a rather plain name, Hotel 41, but the inside is anything but. In American dollars the stay will cost a little over one thousand dollars per night—chump change by Villanelle’s standards. She checks in, finds her room, and spreads herself out inside its large space. Then she ruminates in the room’s bath amidst floral-scented bath bombs she’d snatched from her Paris apartment, thinking about the target and how best to kill him. It would have to be quiet, preferably at a time when he was away from people. George Niles was a rather well-known figure in public, his schedule always full with some sort of event. The file on the computer had shown a man worn with age even though he was only in his fifties, always dressed as if he were going to an opera. It was, thinks Villanelle, doubtful that he would ever go to one. He seemed to be one of those people who hated it. Of course, Villanelle doesn’t much care for opera either, but the setting is perfect for getting away without being noticed much.

            The first thing to do would be to memorize his schedule by ghosting him, or somehow get up close and personal with him. Breaking and entering into his expensive apartment? Likely. Posing as one of his event planners that always seemed to be flittering about his side? Also possible. Photographs showed him obviously flirting with one of those people, mostly the women, but the men too. They had all been around Villanelle’s age, or a little older. It seems like a very possible option.

            The only thing is waiting for him to arrive in town, which, according to the file, would be tomorrow afternoon.

 

* * *

 

To kill some time, Villanelle visits an art gallery. It’s packed with Londoners and tourists alike, all bearing cameras and phones and pamphlets for the various rooms. Languages mix, echo off the walls. Villanelle catches phrases in ones she knows.

            _“The Van Gogh was beautiful up close, wasn’t it?”_

_“Oh Christ, the camera’s frozen…”_

_“I think you should sit down for a moment.”_

Someone sits beside her on the bench. It’s just across from a photograph that’s printed on a large canvas. Villanelle glances sideways. It’s a woman, dressed in black skinny jeans paired with a white collared shirt, most of which is hidden underneath her navy pullover sweater. Her hair is quite curly, its volume struggling to be contained by her fat ponytail. Underneath her minimal but dark makeup, her face bears hints of tiredness. Villanelle glances at her hand; there’s a tan line where a wedding ring used to be. Recently divorced or separated, if she had to guess, or widowed. Not seconds later, two children come up to her and ask if they can move on to the next room. The woman nods, tells them to meet her back here. Villanelle looks back at the canvas photograph, studying the desert landscape, the houses made of stucco, all illuminated by a moon. She leans forward, trying to read the card where it tells the name of the artist, but from this distance the text is one black blur upon white.

            “Ansel Adams,” the woman next to her says.

            Villanelle doesn’t turn to her but feigns surprise. “Oh, I thought it looked familiar.” Her accent would tell the woman she had South London heritage.

            “You know his work?”

            “Yes, but I never knew the name of the photographer.”

            “My kids were excited to see it. They’re quite fond of his work.” She sighs, leans her head back against the wall.

            “You haven’t had much sleep because of them, have you?” Villanelle says.

            “It’s not them. It’s their jackass father.”

            Villanelle shakes her head. “Divorce?”

            “Almost. Fucking legally binding contract. That’s why I’m here, too,” she gestures with a hand. “Had to get away.”

            Villanelle thinks the woman looks like some sort of university professor. An art teacher, perhaps, or a lecturer on art history. So she asks, “Sorry if this seems rude, but what do you do? Couldn’t help but notice your clothes.”

            “I work in the library at Cambridge. My specialty is art history.” The woman looks at her now, eyes roving up and down, pausing very briefly on the triangle of skin Villanelle knows is exposed by the collar of her shirt. “What do _you_ do?”

            “I’m studying at the art school in Camberwell.”

            The woman almost says something else, but then her children return, red-faced and panting. One of them says, “We’d like to go to the gifts shop.”

            The woman looks at Villanelle apologetically and makes to leave, her children already blended into the crowd.

            “What’re you doing after this?” Villanelle asks.

            For a moment the woman is taken aback, shocked by the bravery of the question. Then she says, “I suppose taking the children back to their father.”

            “Come to dinner with me.”

            “What, someone as old as me with someone as young as you?”

            “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

            The woman’s cheeks color. “How do I contact you?”

            Villanelle finds an abandoned pamphlet on the floor and asks a nearby tourist if she could briefly borrow his pen. She scribbles her number and hotel down and gives it to the woman. “You can call me when you’re there.”

            The woman nods, reduced to pure nervousness. She accepts the pamphlet and puts it into her bag. “I’m Angela,” she says at last. “Angela Barrett.”

 

            Angela’s moving almost desperately against her thigh, her breath short, her kisses passionate and clumsy and filled with moans. She’s quite a good kisser; Villanelle finds herself enjoying it, finds herself opening her mouth so she can feel the tip of Angela’s tongue grace the back of her top teeth. Angela’s mouth tastes faintly of red wine. Her throat tastes like perfume made from ocean waves. Villanelle nibbles the sensitive skin there, takes in the shaky breath. Then she places her hands on Angela’s waist and propels her off her lap. Angela stands, panting, red-faced, looking concerned.

            “Take your clothes off,” Villanelle says. “Please,” she adds gently.

            Angela looks down at herself, debating, then reaches down for her jeans zipper. She takes those off first. Then it’s her sweater and button-up, leaving her in plain black underwear. Her cheeks have grown redder. Villanelle rises from the bed, crowding her, trapping her against the wall opposite the foot of the bed.

            “It’s all right.”

            “What if you don’t… like what you see?” Angela asks softly.

            “I already do.”

            Angela laughs nervously, and then she’s nodding. She bends slightly to slide her underwear off. Villanelle helps with her bra, sliding the straps down her shoulders for her. Angela folds her arms over her breasts. Villanelle takes her wrists between gentle fingers, tells her, “No, don’t; you’re lovely.” She unfolds Angela’s arms, takes in her skin, her small breasts. She cups them, kneads softly, absorbs Angela’s soft “Oh, God…”

            “I could draw them, if I were a better artist,” Villanelle says.

            “Now you’re just saying things, Lilian,” Angela breathes.

            “I’m not. They’re lovely.” Her nipples are delightfully sensitive. She’ll take them between her teeth, once she propels Angela back to the bed. For the moment, she lets a hand travel south while she buries her face in the curve of Angela’s shoulder. She teases, and she shuts her eyes, willing herself not to think of Eve but unable to help it. Eve would moan at the touch of her fingers, keep thrusting her hips forward in demand for more, perhaps even gasp if Villanelle were to take a nipple between her teeth. Villanelle propels Angela back to the bed, pushes her into it, and kisses aggressively down her body to take her roughly. It soon becomes apparent that Angela is a shouter. Many of her encounters have been. Even the first one. Even Anna. Would Eve fall into that category too? God, Villanelle certainly hopes so. She hopes Eve would be one to beg between gasps and shudders.

            After Angela leaves, she finishes herself off on the sweat-soaked sheets, pretending the hand she arches into when she comes is Eve’s lovely mouth.

 

* * *

 

George Niles has no security detail with him. Some public figures find it draws a little too much attention, and perhaps George Niles likes to blend with the crowd. Understandable. Being flanked by two overgrown body-builders in Armani with earwigs shining against their ears is bound to turn heads. So no security detail for George Niles. Just him, another man in an equally expensive suit, and one of his event planners who, Villanelle realizes, somewhat acts as a secretary. It’s a woman, no older than Villanelle herself, with dark waves that tumble over her shoulders and shine pleasantly in the light. Villanelle can hear her voice from the café table she’s planted herself at; it’s lovely and lilting, the accent a thick Liverpool one. Villanelle can do posh, maybe a bit of working-class; Liverpool would be a new one. She could pose as this woman or replace her. Either option would work, but it’s all about quickness.

            She turns her attention away from the pretty woman and focuses back on George Niles and the man with him. The other man is tall, well over six feet, and even though he’s up there in age, he still has a thinness about him, save for a belly that swells a little over his belt. A co-worker? A rival? Someone he’s trying to do business with or rope in? A simple Google search would bring up that result. He could be an important player in this too. Villanelle pulls out her phone, snaps a photo before the three disappear inside the café she’d just exited not too long ago. While she waits, she Googles George Niles and scrolls through the various images results until she finds a photo of him with the other man. His name is Jeremy Lyons, and it turns out that he is a rival after all. They both own companies and have been in competition for years. Perhaps, Villanelle thinks, pocketing her phone and returning to her lukewarm espresso, the reason she’s killing George Niles is so one company can remain and there’ll be no quarrels as to whom is better suited for her employers’ interests.

            George Niles and Jeremy Lyons exit the café, laden with lunch sandwiches; the event planner/secretary isn’t present. Villanelle abandons her table and heads back inside to the restrooms, where she catches the secretary at the vanity fixing her hair.

            “Excuse me,” Villanelle says, using the South London accent from the night before, “do you work for George Niles?”

            “I do,” the secretary replies. “Are you also looking for this job?”

            “I’ve been after it for two years.”

            The secretary turns to her, runs her eyes over Villanelle in an inspection. “I’m surprised he didn’t hire you. You’re definitely his type. Unless you brought up the scandal in your interview and he dismissed you.”

            “Scandal?”

            “With his now ex-wife. There was a kid involved.”

            “I wasn’t aware there was a scandal,” Villanelle says.

            “That’s good on your part. You’d better not mention it.” She finishes with her hair and applies another coat of red lipstick. “Come with me, I’ll introduce you.”

            Villanelle follows her back outside and stands patiently while she gets George Niles’ attention.

            “Mr. Niles, this girl is interested in my position.”

            “And who is she, Claire?”

            “Yvonne Branch,” Villanelle says, sticking out her hand. “I’ve been after this position for two years.”

            George Niles nods, contemplative. Jeremy Lyons is looking at her with a gaze that makes her palms itch. “What makes you think I want to hire you?”

            “You’ve got a handful of event planners or whatever these people are already, as I’m sure your docket is quite full. I thought you were in need of another.”

            Again, a nod, this time while he chews noisily. What a nightmare. Then, “How do you like classical concerts, Yvonne?”

            Villanelle feigns surprise and the feeling of flattery. “I… I love them.”

            “There’s a concert at the Royal Festival Hall tonight at 7. Debussy, featuring the renowned French pianist Jean Bouget. You’ll accompany me, and we’ll see if you can keep up. If not, I’m afraid you’ll have to seek employment elsewhere.” He rummages in his trouser pocket and produces a card, then scribbles something on it before handing it to her. “That’s my mobile number, and that is the hotel I’m staying at.”

            Villanelle tucks it away into her purse. “When should I meet you?”

            “Six,” George Niles says. “And wear something nice.”

 

            She’d been to classical concerts and an opera before, with Anna. The opera had been something French. The first classical concert had featured well-known Russian composers and concluded with Rachmaninoff’s _All-Night Vigil._ It had been Anna’s favorite. There were some that came after the first, though their contents escape Villanelle’s memory; she only remembers afterwards, linking her arm through Anna’s as they walked, the things that came with arriving back at her apartment. The last concert they ever went to had been all about Debussy, some semi-miserable two hours in which Villanelle had sweltered in her seat from the press of bodies and unbearable longing to have Anna away from those people and underneath her in bed.    

            “We can listen to Debussy at home,” she said in protest.

            “The French composers are much better when you hear them in a concert hall.” Anna was pulling on a light jacket, being sure to cover the bruises Villanelle had sucked into the curve of her shoulder. “Trust me, Oksana. It’s beautiful.”

            “Did you hate it?” Anna asked when they were alone. The curtains were closed, the only light from Anna’s yellow lamp beside the bed.

            “Yes,” Villanelle said, practically tearing Anna’s button-up open, buttons clattering and mixing with Anna’s gasp. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

            “Oh my god,” Anna breathed, nearly laughing, “those will take forever to sew back—”

            Villanelle kissed her. “I hated it,” she said, dragging herself lower. “The sounds of your ecstasy are more beautiful than any piece of music a French composer could write.” She gave in to earlier desires and kissed Anna’s breasts.

            Villanelle puts the thoughts to the back of her mind as she zips up her black dress. There will be no lover accompanying her to this concert, only a man that is her target, and one that is hiding something. She applies makeup, doing a smoky eye, and finishes the look with a red lipstick. There’s still time to kill before she has to meet George Niles at his hotel, so she holds off on putting her heels on. She settles on the large bed with a sigh, pulling up Google on her phone to see if there is any information about the scandal Claire mentioned. She types _george niles scandal_ into the search bar and scrolls through a list of results. Most are for different men who share this one’s name, involving various cover-ups and divorces and the like. She finds an article several pages later; it’s very short.

          _George Niles, a rather well-known public figure in England and known for his dealings of building guns, has recently come under fire with his wife and their son when the latter, Henry Niles, came forward and reported sexual abuse. He would not say who._

            Villanelle doesn’t need to read more than that. She couldn’t care about why whoever wants George Niles dead wants to keep Jeremy Lyons’ company in their arsenal. That’s just the business interest side of things.

            I shouldn’t kill you tonight, she thinks, stuffing a compact gun into her bag, but I will.

 

            Villanelle arrives at the Marriott a little before six, texting Niles that she is waiting for him outside. While he makes his way down, she mentally prepares for what a night with this man will be like. He may be a talker or a joker or someone who thinks he’s coming on charming when really he’s coming on creepy. Walls, she tells herself. Build them up, let little things slip through. Build the character as you go.

            Niles emerges, dressed in a suit similar to the one he was wearing earlier, except this one bears a bow tie and silver cufflinks. He greets Villanelle briefly and thrusts a tablet into her hands. It already has schedules pulled up, probably put together by Claire, who is notably absent.

            “Where’s Claire?” Villanelle asks.

            “I told her to take the night off, seeing as you’re here.” He leads her to his car. There is no personal chauffeur. He climbs into the driver’s seat, leaving Villanelle to open the passenger door herself.

            “I’d think a man like you ought to be more courteous,” Villanelle chastises, keeping her tone light. “Not a gentlemanly bone in your body?”

            “Maybe only to those I like,” Niles says, giving her a long sideways glance. “I don’t know if I like you yet.” But the way his eyes linger on the skin left exposed by the cut of her neckline says otherwise. He’s probably already thinking about how to woo her, how to get her alone.

            The drive to the concert hall takes twenty-five minutes. They arrive as the auditorium is being filled. One of the ushers recognizes Niles and greets him cheerily. “Mr. Niles! Lovely to see you. Thank you so much for your charitable donation last month, sir, it’s so appreciated.”

            “My pleasure, Otto,” Niles says, shaking Otto’s hand.

            “And who is your lovely new assistant?”

            “Yvonne,” Villanelle says. “This is a test.”

            “Let’s hope she passes, eh?” Otto winks, and he and Niles share a chuckle. “Let me see your ticket, and then you can go right on in.”

            He’d purchased a ticket for the front row of the balcony. It’s higher up and offers a view of the patrons below and the whole stage. Villanelle swallows. It’s a different concert hall with completely different décor, and yet…

            She sits beside Niles once he finds his seat. Already he is talking about the various goings-on in his life, most of them business-related; Villanelle half-listens, scrolling through the tablet, humming assent at the right times, pointing out differences when something doesn’t add up. Then it turns personal, and Niles asks, “Where are you from, Yvonne?”

            “Where are _you_ from, Mr. Niles?” she counters. He smiles.

            “Coy.” His voice is lower. “I grew up in London, then moved to Brighton with my parents but went back up here to Oxford. Been in my business ever since.” He goes on and on about family details until the auditorium is filled and the lights dim. An announcement comes on, welcoming everyone, and would they please silence cell phones during the performance? There will be a fifteen-minute intermission, and then the concert will conclude.

            The first act consists solely of Debussy’s piano compositions. The music is uninteresting, but the pianist, Jean Bouget, is interesting to watch. Back straight, posture perfect, fingers flying deftly over the keys as if he’s doing the simplest thing in the world.

            “They make it look so easy, don’t they?” Anna had said. “So effortless. Like I could just sit down and let my fingers glide over the keys and out comes _Nocturne_.”

            One song fades with thoughts of Anna; another begins, and suddenly Villanelle is thinking of Eve. What music she likes. If she likes concert halls, or has ever been to one in her forty-something years. If she would let Villanelle take her to one and let Villanelle’s hand stay on her knee.

            She loses count of how many songs play within the first act. Jean Bouget lifts his hands from the keys, concluding the _Images_ compositions, and the audience applauds. He stands, smiling, and bows. Then the curtains fall and Villanelle rises from her chair, quickly saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Niles,” feeling too hot. She locks herself in a stall when she reaches the women’s restroom, her breath short. She tries to calm her breathing but her lungs don’t cooperate, nor does her body, which seems overcome with lust for a woman she’d just met in person over a month ago. Fuck it, she thinks, leaning heavily against the wall, impatiently thrusting her hand up her dress and into her underwear. She wonders if Eve would fuck her here, if she would allow herself to be pushed to her knees but not before Villanelle ordered Eve to kiss her breasts, bite her nipples. Villanelle doesn’t go inside like she so desperately wants to; too much noise. So she’s stuck with circles. It takes all of five minutes. The orgasm leaves her gasping quietly into her hand. “Oh fuck, fuck… fuck…” She stays for another five to calm down and fix her underwear; had she known this would be an outcome, she would’ve stuffed an extra pair next to her compact gun in her bag. After those five minutes are up, she exits the stall, finding the bathroom nearly empty, washes her hands, and fixes her slightly disheveled hair. She would be fired on her first day if Niles thought she was conducting affairs on his watch.

            “Just in time,” Niles murmurs when she returns.

            “There was a line,” Villanelle says back.

            “Always is.” There’s probably three minutes until the show resumes. She feels Niles leaning closer, an attempt to be casual. “Would you like to come back home with me?”

            Villanelle scoffs. “That’s quite an offer to give someone when they’re on the first day of the job.”

            “I find it’s a good way to get to know someone better. People are different when they’re alone, aren’t they?”

            “Yes,” Villanelle agrees, and it isn’t a lie. “They are.”

            The second half passes in much shorter time. Jean Bouget is accompanied by string instruments for the first handful of songs, then does an interlude with _Clair de Lune_ , and concludes with movement three of _String Quartet in G Minor_. The last notes fade, pianist, conductor, and quartet lower their arms and instruments, and the crowd stands. Would Eve stand too? What emotion would be on her face? Joy? Sadness because of the melancholy closing tune? Fascination? She doesn’t know, but what Villanelle does know, is that her eyes would be on Eve instead of at the bowing performers.

 

            Niles is droning on in the car. The words fly through one ear and out the other. Her brain is void of Eve now, pushing the woman back until she’s alone and washing off the kill. Villanelle grips the handle of her compact gun over and over in her bag, so tempted to shoot him right the fuck now just to get him to shut up, but it wouldn’t do to cause an accident on the road; too loud, too messy, too many people. Patience, she tells herself, letting her head fall back against the headrest. She focuses on the city lights flying by, the people becoming blurs as the world grows darker.

            Niles pulls the car up to his expensive apartment complex. Villanelle allows herself to be led, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. The texture of his suit jacket makes her grind her teeth almost as much as the fact she can feel his warmth radiating through it. He talks about the apartment’s history and how he came to acquire it. Villanelle nods and hums at all the right parts, pushing her impatient sighs back down into the depths of her lungs. The more expensive the suit, the more boring the man.

            The apartment, however, is slightly less boring. It’s more on the lavish side, completely masculine, a mix of modern and vintage. The windows are large and let in the evening’s golden light. Villanelle admits it’s a nice apartment but given the circumstances and the man who rents it, it’s anything but lovely or comfortable.

            “Want a drink?” Niles asks.

            “Sure.”

            He disentangles Villanelle’s hand from his arm and goes into the kitchen for their drinks. Villanelle stands by one of the large windows, looking down at the street and the buildings spread across her view. Niles comes back with a scotch and two glasses half-filled. The way he’s looking at her now is making her blood bubble. She accepts one of the glasses, studying him carefully, like a woman who is being cautious about someone’s next move.

            “Are you single, Yvonne?”

            “Are you?”

            He chuckles. “Of course. I wouldn’t invite you up here if I were married.”

            She shakes her head, smiles. “Something tells me otherwise, Mr. Niles.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “Your voice. The way you’re looking at me. I don’t think you’d hesitate to have an affair, because you give into lust, and you think marriage is only a piece of paper onto which you’ve signed your name. Legally binding, yes, but still capable of being burned.”

            If anything, Niles’ eyes darken. He takes one gulp of his scotch, sets the glass aside. Villanelle keeps hers, runs her finger over the rim. Niles questions, “What did you do before this? You seem so… attune to people.”

            “I was a psychologist,” Villanelle replies, “for a time.”

            Niles nods, smile growing slightly. “That explains it.” He’s getting closer. His cologne is awful. And there’s a too-obvious lump at the front of his trousers. Out of habit, Villanelle grips her gun. She could shoot him, but she feels like being subtle. Not making it look like murder, but suicide. Niles continues, “What do you read now?”

            “You want to fuck me.”

            He licks his lips, nods. Steps into her space and reaches out to touch her, but Villanelle grabs his wrist, and in one smooth movement, she has it pinned behind his back. She kicks him in both knees and, as he sinks, she releases his arm and traps his neck in the crook of hers. He struggles, his breathing disgustingly heavy. She restricts his airflow until he passes out and gently lowers him to the ground. She searches the rooms and finds the office, where there is a single ceiling fan. There is no rope, and so she’ll have to use his belts. She ties two from the fan and a third is used as a noose. She goes back into the main room and, with effort, carries Niles to the office. She takes a kitchen chair, sets it under the makeshift noose, then manhandles Niles onto it. She slaps him once, and he slowly regains consciousness. She takes out her gun and aims it right at his heart.

            “Hello, you sick man,” Villanelle says. He seems surprised to hear her real accent.

            “What do you want?” There is no trace of arousal about him now; fear is what keeps that lump in his pants obvious. “Money? Drugs?”

            “Do I look like I do drugs?” She shakes her head, amused at his question. “I have more money than I know what to do with. I don’t want any that your dirty hands have touched.”

            “Dirty?”

            “Oh, for a well-dressed man you certainly aren’t very bright.” Amusement is gone, replaced by ice. “You know what you’ve done. Your son?”

            “That… that was a long time ago.”

            “There are probably others too. Is that why your event planners or assistants or whatever the fuck this job is are so young?” He makes to speak again, but she waves a hand at him. “I don’t care. Frankly, that’s not the reason they sent me here, but it gives me more justification in killing you. Now,” she leans forward, “instead of me listening to you, you will listen to me, OK?” He nods, looking comically like a bobblehead. “Stand up.” He obeys. “On the chair.” His legs shake as he steps onto it. “Turn around, face me. Good. Now put that around your neck.”

            “You don’t have to do this,” Niles says. He’s fumbling with the noose.

            “I do. I get paid.” She steps to him with a sigh. “Clearly you’ve never attempted this before.” She keeps her gun aimed at him while she adjusts the noose, tightening the belt until it digs into his skin and he can only rasp out words.

            “Please… don’t…”

            “Do you think there’s a heaven, George?” she asks.

            Between labored breaths he manages to pull his reddening face into a mask of confusion.

            “It’s a simple question.”

            He shrugs, whispers, “I was… raised… Catholic…”

            “So you do believe?”

            He shrugs again. “Gave… it up…”

            “No guesses?” He shakes his head, and she laughs. “I doubt there would even be a place for someone like you, if an afterlife exists.” Villanelle sighs, leans a little closer. “I’ll tell you, then, what I’ve noticed. I’ve killed a lot of people with a lot of different beliefs, who said their soul will ascend to the afterlife, whatever it was, according to their religion. But I don’t think that’s what happens.” She leans to him, invading his space like he’d done so much earlier; Niles inhales and his eyes grow even wider. “I think it goes inwards. Gets smaller and smaller inside your eyes until it just _poof!_ ” She flicks her fingers at him. “Dies away. And you’re empty.” She shakes her head. “It’s unbelievable. But that’s what’ll happen to you. And I’m going to sit and watch.”

            She kicks the chair out from underneath him; it topples onto the office rug with barely a sound. Niles grunts as his weight finally settles, and then he’s twitching and struggling, choking, turning redder. His eyes are wide, still very much alive with fear and question and desperation. Probably already coming in his pants. A death-orgasm, as someone described it once. She sets aside the strangeness of the human body to watch his eyes. His breathing is shallow now, his face violet, his eyes bulging like a pug’s when it’s far too excited. Villanelle’s heart flutters its hummingbird beat inside her ribcage, her veins hot with elation. It turns into gratification when George Niles’ feet are the only things twitching, stays until he’s finally still and his eyes are burnt out.

            Villanelle inhales deeply, her breath a shudder, and releases it slowly. She leaves the office, shuts the door behind her. She checks his schedule on the tablet and sees that tomorrow morning, at 11, a driver is coming to pick him up to take him to some charity event in Brighton.

            The driver will find him. It’ll be marked as suicide.

            Villanelle goes back into the office and searches for anything that will tell her where his son is. She finds his address penned on a yellowing scrap of paper from a composition book, and a note on the back that says _Current address as of January, 2018._

            Villanelle finds a new pack of stationary, a kind that hasn’t been used before, and uses it to write a note to the son.

_I’ve done you a favor._

            He’ll get it just as the news about his father’s death breaks out across London.

 

            There is no blood to clean from her hands and clothes, but Villanelle draws a bath anyways. She finds expensive salts underneath the cabinet, all of them various scents. She chooses a cherry blossom one and drops it into the filling tub. Then she grabs her phone and plays Debussy’s _Nocturne._

            The bath settles her nerves and makes the raging tide of her thoughts calm to softer waves. She thinks of Niles breathing, thinks of his struggling eyes. Her lips twitch. Another successful one. She settles deeper into the hot, floral water, head falling back onto the tile by the tub’s edge. The kill fades away, and Eve resurfaces, as does her stolen moment in the women’s restroom. How desperate it had been. How silly, Villanelle thinks with a groan. But she can’t help who her body and brain want; both have made up their minds. _We want Eve._

            Want to kiss her until they’re clumsily making out. To undress her, run hands through her fabulous hair and over the curves of her body. Take her until she feels empty and sated. Villanelle drains the tub, hops out, goes to the bed without a bathrobe, uncaring that her sheets will get wet. She begins immediately where she left off, testing herself, seeing how long she can hold off going inside before imploding. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. The version of Eve in her mind is as strung out as she is, though only one of them is pleading. Finally, unable to bear it, she presses inside, keeping a desperate pace. She curses and gasps, even whimpers. She’ll scold herself for it later even though it’s a natural response. She screws her eyes shut and arches into her hand, gripping the sheets with the other, unable to trap the loud moans behind clenched teeth.

            “Fuck you,” Villanelle says to Eve. She collapses heavily on the pillows, muscles twitching, chest heaving. _Nocturne_ floats from the bathroom, repeating for another time.

 

**_Epilogue: Paris Meeting_ **

“You made it look like suicide.”

            Konstantin is holding the bottle of champagne out of her reach. Like if she sits long enough, she’ll get a treat. Villanelle says, “There were no specific instructions on how to take him out. He was a pedophile. He deserved a slow death.”

            “A note reached his son, saying ‘I’ve done you a favor.’”

            Villanelle shrugs. “Yeah. It was a favor. His stupid predatory father is gone, a ghost put to rest.”

            Konstantin sighs and finally hands over the bottle. Villanelle greedily undoes the cork. It pops, sending a spray onto her floor. She drinks it straight from the bottle. It’s sweet, but the expensive kind of sweet. “You were right. No specific instructions. The next one,” he pulls another postcard from his jacket pocket, “does. Read them carefully.”

            Villanelle plucks it from his fingers. It’s in Wales this time, in three days. “Just enough time for me to recuperate,” she says.

            “Make good use of your time,” Konstantin tells her. He ruffles her hair. “I’ll be checking in on you.” He makes to leave but stops at the doorway leading to the hall. “What about Eve Polastri?” he asks.

            “Still after me, as far as I know.”

            “I mean your thoughts of her.”

            “I’ve never thought about her that way, only of how to keep her guessing.”

            She hears him grunt in understanding. She can’t see his face, doesn’t know if he wears an expression of doubt or not. In fairness, she could tell him “I’ve masturbated about her twice,” but information like that is best left unsaid. For some reason, she doesn’t want Konstantin to know that particular intimacy, even if he’s walked in on some when they’re ending or on a morning after. Villanelle seals her lips, and reads the postcard regarding Wales.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on Tumblr, if you would like: kate-the-rabbit


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